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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829895">Orphans Of The Universe</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech'>CopperBeech</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, Just Add Kittens, M/M, Real Demons Love Cats, Snuggling, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), Soppy, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, do not copy to another site, no real plot just kittens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:15:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,363</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829895</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/CopperBeech/pseuds/CopperBeech</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The evening definitely had not been meant to end with Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around the demon’s spindly thighs, holding him aloft as he reached to barely connect with the squalling, scrabbling Oswald Spengler.</i><br/> <br/><i>“Got ‘im – ow, you little berk – “ The sunglasses went flying. Oswald was firmly ensconced on Crowley’s head and seemed to be suggesting that the entire world and the London Fire Brigade in particular owed him a comprehensive, heavily annotated apology.</i></p><p>  <i>“Ah – you can put me down, angel.”</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Kittens, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley &amp; Kittens</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>84</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>214</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Orphans Of The Universe</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I've done Crowley with a cat before ("Catty-Cornered") and in these trying times it seemed the moment to up the ante with kittens. At this point in lockdown, I'm not up to plot, drama, angst or anything except sweet fluffy fluff. Always headcanoned that Crowley would have a soft spot for animals (who revived that dove, anyway?), especially ones that have been cast out.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I <em>told </em>you, you ought to have sobered up first.”</p><p>“Night air sh’d’a done it. Din’no you were gonna add a step.”</p><p>“You’re going to have a proper goose egg there – “</p><p>“Duck. Ducks lay eggs, don’ they?”</p><p>“<em>What </em>are you wittering on about? And – what’s that?”</p><p>“Tol’ ya. Extra step.”</p><p>“No, that squeaking noise – “</p><p>They’d actually drunk the night away, this time. Crowley’d spent every second or third evening since the world didn’t end at the shop, reliving the run-up to Armageddon’t, telling tales out of Hell, making plans for the rest of his life (“maybe I’ll try car racing”), walking them back (“s’pose I better find out the odds of getting recorporated first”), not wanting to sober up or go home, drifting in and out even during the day.</p><p>The angel wasn’t sure what was going on and told himself that speculation was pointless. Encouraged Crowley to a bit of mischief, once in a while (“That tiresome collector deserves it. Won’t leave off over the forged Gospel of Judas”). The demon occasionally humoured him, but always seemed to be thinking of something else.</p><p>Now he was checking to see that his bones were all present and correct – Aziraphale resisted the temptation to count down his vertebrae – from a prone position on the Soho pavement, where he’d measured his length on his way out the bookshop door. A sturdy cardboard box lay half on the bottom step, kicked blindly aside in his exit, and a high-pitched sound like a steadily rotating, unoiled wheel came from it.</p><p>“All right. Bugger.” A moment’s concentration. “Love bein’ right, don’t you? Let’s see then, what – “</p><p>Still reclining on one elbow, Crowley pulled up the flap of the squeaking  box. The faint dawnlight showed little more than a vague mass of squirming fluff, occasionally extruding an infinitesimal extremity or exhibiting a tiny pink maw: black, white, striped, tawny.</p><p>“What ever – “ Aziraphale knelt gingerly on his pocket handkerchief, gazing a little blearily himself as Crowley lifted up a bare handful of wriggling, squealing black kitten -- ears little more than parentheses, tail a salamander stub, one eye closed, toothless mouth latching onto the tip of the demon’s jet-nailed finger.</p><p>“Guess word got around,” said Crowley. “Save the world, ‘fore you know it someone’s droppin’ off kittens with no mum.”</p><p>“Oh, dear.”</p><p>“Know how they feel, sort’ve,” said Crowley.</p><p> </p><p>*     *     *</p><p> </p><p>“Isn’t one meant to call the RSPCA or one of those – ?”</p><p>“You don’t have a book?”</p><p>“Well, dear, even for me it’s a bit of a niche subject – “</p><p>The kittens hadn’t quieted – the mewling had an edge that was making the angel fairly frantic, and brought back memories of all the inarticulate squalling and belling on the Ark. Crowley was thumbing through something on his phone.</p><p>“There are these rescue places, I’m sure – “</p><p>“Ssh.” He was playing a tinny video now, not quite audible from where the angel sat because of the high-pitched cacophony. Several minutes went by.</p><p>“I could warm up some milk – “</p><p>“Says here no milk.”</p><p>“Says where?”</p><p>Crowley held up his hand. “Tryin’ to follow this.”</p><p>More minutes passed, and from the sound of it a few short clips. “Warm,” said Crowley abruptly, hoicking himself off the couch. “Miracle ’em warm. Or blankets. Hot water bottle. Back in a bit.” He was already tucking the phone in his pocket.</p><p>“Where are you – “</p><p>“Shopping,” said Crowley, heading for the door like a demon with a mission. “Place about a half mile away’s miraculously about to open up early. Owner forgot something. She thinks.”</p><p>The bell jangled after him, but after a moment he stuck his head back in.</p><p>“Oi. Think they’ve got fleas. See what you can do.”</p><p> </p><p>*    *    *</p><p> </p><p>“About two weeks old,” said the demon, dropping a heavy box and a couple of loaded carriers on the carpet. Traffic was starting to thicken outside but the light was still dawn-diffuse. “Get a kettle going?”</p><p>You could miracle fleas off a kitten, it seemed, but you couldn’t as easily miracle food into one. Several small fluffy blankets had turned the box into a nest, which was happily exuding radiant heat. The black kitten was waggling its hind legs in the cup of Crowley’s palm while emptying a tiny bottle of watery kitten milk brewed up from powder – down its belly, over its face, and almost accidentally into its gullet.</p><p>The ears waggled, too.</p><p>“That’s <em>good,</em> Oswald – go on, tuck in, just like Uncle Zira with a flan – “</p><p>“<em>Uncle?”</em></p><p>Aziraphale pulled away his reading glasses, trying not to look like a stodgy relative who was older than dirt (leaving aside the fact that, actually, he was).</p><p>“Got that handkerchief? S’posed to rub ’em on the stomach after – “</p><p>“Oh dear. That’s messy.”</p><p>“Uh. Well, what are miracles for?”</p><p>“Every time?”</p><p>“Says in the video.”</p><p>“<em>Oswald?”</em></p><p>“First book I spotted after taking him out of the box. Well, I <em>think</em> it’s a him.”</p><p>Someone had dropped off a load of tired, used volumes the day before, apparently mistaking Fell’s for the kind of bookseller that recycles the random detritus of spring-cleaning. <em>Decline of the West</em> was already on the way out of the shop. But <em>Oswald Spengler</em> the black kitten remained.</p><p> </p><p>*    *    *</p><p> </p><p>The calico was Colette, the black-and-white Tasso – good literary names – but apparently the marmalade was “Octopussy.”</p><p>“It’s one of the Bond films, angel. Keep meaning to drag you to that one.”</p><p>“Car chases. Gunfire. I’d think you’d had quite enough of that.”</p><p>“Not the same if it’s just a silly film.”</p><p>Their eyes were all open now, and the ears had turned into little triangular shells. The angel, who never slept as a rule, had been reluctantly feeding and cleaning them when Crowley went down for an occasional twelve or fifteen hour stretch – he would simply and unceremoniously flop back on the couch and put his boots up on the arm.</p><p>Reluctantly, yes; it was not at all his sort of thing, untidy, intrusive, and he definitely did <em>not</em> allow Torquato Tasso (“a full name is only polite”) to climb up his sleeve for any reason other than to let the kitten tire himself back to sleep so there would be peace and quiet for a bit. Nor did he put Colette into his inside jacket pocket out of any motive other than idle curiosity, to see if she would stay.</p><p>Crowley didn’t let him hear the end of it.</p><p>The demon had more or less moved in – Aziraphale discovered he did not feel reluctant about that at all – making only one trip back to Mayfair in a week, with a detour to the plant store (“they don’t like catnip right away but it gives this time to grow”). Fussily, <em>well, if you </em>must,<em> I suppose right here will do, </em>the angel cleared a sunny spot in the window, trying to disguise how pleased he was.</p><p>Because at least now Crowley, who’d been disturbingly rudderless, had an obsession. He was an all-or-nothing sort, either a mess of depressive serpentine torpor or a ricochet of manic energy; now he had something that absorbed him to a point of curious balance. It made him, of all words he’d never thought applied to Crowley, <em>happy. </em>Aziraphale would tolerate a good deal more than a catnip plant to see that candid, open gaze, that fond expression, even if it wasn’t directed at him.</p><p>Definitely silly. Wishing he'd been invited back to the flat again. That had been a onetime thing, when they didn't know the bookshop was restored. Just the decency of a normally very private demon with his own very private space.</p><p>“They can start eating kitten food,” Crowley said, prone on the couch and absorbed in yet another video. Oswald Spengler was sitting precariously on his head. “ ‘N’ using that box.”</p><p>“Hmph. About time.”</p><p>“Hear that, Oswald?" The demon rolled his eyes up as though he could see the black kitten through the top of his head. "Uncle Zira thinks it’s time you grew up.”</p><p>Well, you <em>could</em> just walk over and pet a kitten. That was what you did with kittens, or so he gathered. And then go on to riffle your fingertips through vivid demon hair, maybe even after the kitten had jumped away --</p><p>You could stay right there at the desk and not make a fool of yourself. “This <em>Uncle</em> business – “</p><p>“Just winding you up.”</p><p>“Where?”</p><p>“Where what?”</p><p>“The box. One does not have that sort of thing in a shopfront.”</p><p>“Can’t think of a better way to chase off customers.”</p><p>“Hmph. At this point I can’t keep them out.”</p><p>Which was true: the queue to adopt the kittens formed to the left. A very wholesome mum-type who’d come in looking for out-of-print romance novels – of which the angel turned out to have a stash (and Crowley didn’t let him hear the end of that, either) fell in love with Colette after a few days’ perusing the collection. (“Sold to another buyer, I’m afraid, but I see no harm in your<em> looking</em> till they come down to London to pick it up.”) The couple who owned the coffee shop at the corner had dibs on Tasso (“he is going to be a fine mouser, only look at those large paws,” said the younger of the husbands in a lilting West African accent). The gender-optional, multiply pierced night clerk from the video store hadn’t exactly staked a claim, but came in before their shift every day to play with Octopussy.</p><p>“I don’t get a moment’s peace,” complained the angel, who was definitely, <em>certainly</em> not being soothed by the minuscule purring presence of Tasso in his cashmere lap. “All these people coming in and out at all hours.”</p><p>“It’s a <em>shop,</em> angel. People are meant to go in and out of shops. Been trying to explain this to you.”</p><p>Octopussy chose that moment to totter across the Axminster, pounce on something that only she could see, and then topple to one side like a tiny tree in a miniature forest.</p><p>“Need to get ’em some toys,” Crowley said. Oswald Spengler squealed assent.</p><p>Aziraphale decided to say nothing about the package of cloth mice and jingling balls he’d already secreted in the desk drawer.</p><p> </p><p>*    *    *</p><p> </p><p>“<em>Woolsucker</em>,” said Crowley, peering into his phone from a supine position on the couch. Aziraphale had given up in the matter of the boots and simply put an antimacassar on the couch arm.</p><p>“<em>What</em> did you say?”</p><p>“He’s a woolsucker. ’S' what it’s called, seems.”</p><p>Oswald Spengler – whose blue eyes had shifted to a deep gold that rivalled the demon’s, vivid in his black fur –  was enthusiastically nursing on the knot of Crowley’s silver tie, kneading his paws into the bare slice of demon chest beneath it with a vigour that left a small constellation of shallow punctures.</p><p>“Means he misses his Mum. Some’ve‘em never grow out of it. Been reading.” If that was what it took.</p><p>“My dear – he’s <em>clawing</em> you.” The angel restrained himself from touching at the last second. “I, ah – let me get you something for that – ”</p><p>“Not really – <em>ow</em> – hurting anything. Just want a bit’ve love, don’t you, Oswald?”</p><p>The angel did some careful, slow, deep breathing.</p><p>“Sure, all any’ve us want, ennit?” The glossy black nails were half buried in the kitten-fuzz of Oswald’s head, which was barely large enough for all five fingertips to scratch at once.</p><p>The kitten and the demon seemed to be on the same page, at least.</p><p>“Assa little guy. You go to sleep right there.”</p><p><em>Very </em>slow deep breathing.</p><p>“Going out for a bit of air,” said Aziraphale.</p><p> </p><p>*     *     *</p><p> </p><p>“The two of you have not had a date in a month, have you?” said Usman, dandling Tasso on his shoulder. “Of course we will watch. I brought my tablet to do the books. Our little mouser will be excellent company, yes, will you not?”</p><p>Nigel was on his hands and knees in front of the couch, trying to winkle Colette out.</p><p>“Well – ah – if you’re sure it’s not too much trouble – “</p><p>“Ah, no worries, Celia’s got the shop,”  said Nigel, backing out with Colette firmly cinched onto his dreadlocks. “Slow night.”</p><p>“C’mon, angel. Managed reservations for eight.”</p><p>Usman was perfectly correct; Crowley had kept the angel in pastries, there’d been takeaway from here and there, but a proper evening in a proper restaurant hadn’t happened since before the litter arrived. Aziraphale dithered.</p><p>“Colette <em>will</em> try to get in your jacket<em> – </em>I can’t train her out of it – “</p><p>“After y’trained her into it – “</p><p>“<em>I heard that.</em> It was only an experiment.  -- And they get another supper at ten – try not to let them climb all the way into the dish – “</p><p>“I’ve left directions for ’em, angel. Come <em>on.”</em></p><p>“We got this, guv. Go have a good time. Usa and me, we do somethin’ special together once a month, keeps it new. You go on.”</p><p>“We’re not a – “</p><p>Crowley snapped an elbow up, as if to say <em>take my arm, </em>jostling the chubby angel amidships; stood there waiting.</p><p>After a moment Aziraphale took the proffered arm. “You will get <em>all </em> the mouses,” Usman could be heard saying as they walked out.</p><p> </p><p>*    *    *</p><p> </p><p>They came back to every light in the shop blazing.</p><p>“We know he did not get out – “</p><p>“I heard him over there – “</p><p>“Squid is under the desk<em>  – “</em></p><p><em>“Octopussy</em>,” said Crowley,  “ – what – “</p><p>“The Fire Brigade went by, very loud, everyone was frightened – “</p><p>Nigel had a long scratch, still beading blood, down one forearm. He didn’t seem to notice.</p><p>“Tosser ran under the couch, the other girl is in the box – “</p><p>“Spangle! Heard him way up somewhere – could he get upstairs?”</p><p>“Spengler,” corrected Aziraphale absently. “Oswald – oh dear.” Someone had clearly launched off the desk and fifty or so copperplate-inscribed filing cards were fanned across the rug like the beginning of one of his magic tricks.</p><p>Up to this point, it had been idyllic. The Dover Sole was tender and flaky, the asparagus had perfect snap, the waitstaff had welcomed them back with special little touches; the champagne was a toast to surviving all over again, without the exhaustion and uncertainty that had offset the triumph of Not The End Of The World. For a moment the words the angel had held back that night rose to his lips – Crowley’s hand was there on the damask cloth, he hadn’t pulled it away before – well, maybe it was best not to risk spoiling what was already a perfect evening.</p><p>And here were their sitters, clambering and creeping through A. Z. Fell’s as if someone had arranged a scavenger hunt.</p><p>There was a thud in the recesses of the bookshop, and a faint squeal. “Oh bloody hell,” muttered Crowley, homing in – Aziraphale could swear he saw him testing the air with his tongue before turning down between two shelves –  and springing just as a fleeting shape jumped across the gap ahead of him. A precarious stack of books collapsed to the floor with a drawn-out, deafening noise and a choking plume of dust. Nigel sneezed roaringly.</p><p>A tiny black shape dangled by its foreclaws from the edge of the staircase.</p><p>“Ah buggery -- angel, give’s a boost here – “</p><p>The evening definitely had not been meant to end with Aziraphale’s arms wrapped around the demon’s spindly thighs, holding him aloft as he reached to barely connect with the squalling, scrabbling Oswald Spengler.</p><p>“<em>Got ‘im – </em>ow, you little <em>berk</em> – “ The sunglasses went flying. Oswald was firmly ensconced on Crowley’s head and seemed to be suggesting that the entire world and the London Fire Brigade in particular owed him a comprehensive, heavily annotated apology.</p><p>“Ah – you can put me down, angel.”</p><p>“Oh – yes – “</p><p>“Y’all right, mate?” called Nigel, before sneezing again.</p><p>“Um, angel, can’t get this cat off me ‘f y'don’t let go – “</p><p>If Crowley had mustered every power of temptation at his command, if he’d studied and planned and waited for his moment, he couldn’t have surpassed this: hair in all directions, the silver tie just exposing a Southern Cross of feline tattooing, yellow eyes completely blown in the shock of the moment, a tiny tendril of blood creeping slowly down to his eyebrow <em>oh dear where’s my handkerchief I’ll get that </em>and a wailing kitten perched above his forehead like an Egyptian headdress -</p><p>Aziraphale, lifting his hand to daub at the thready scratch, looked into those eyes for one long moment and was finally, calamitously lost.</p><p>Except that Crowley found him. Went on finding him, in fact, for half a minute or so after the angel’s first, just-too-late moment of stark mortification, which occurred a split second after their lips met, and warred with the thought <em>why didn’t I do this weeks ago, he feels like home and tastes the way I always imagined, better than – </em>it felt for a moment as if the room were moving and he had to break away –</p><p>“Ah – oh, my dear” – a hoarse whisper – “that was terribly forward of me, are you all right…?“</p><p>Somehow those limber arms had crept around him. “Just fine, angel.” Somehow the words were being spoken almost soundlessly next to his ear. “But I think we can make a better job of this alone. Without a cat on my head.”</p><p>Nigel emitted a third Highland battle yell of a sneeze. Oswald leaped to Aziraphale’s head, thence to his shoulder, and took off for parts unknown.</p><p>“He’ll come out for supper,” said Crowley.</p><p>“I’ve got Tosser,” called Usman. “<em>Goood</em> little Tosser.”</p><p>“Ah – that’s <em>Tasso</em>,” Aziraphale replied.</p><p>Crowley retrieved his glasses, sighed.</p><p>“I’ll explain.”</p><p>*     *     *</p><p>“Took you long enough,” said Crowley. As on that bench in Tadfield several weeks ago – but much more comfortably – they were passing a bottle of wine back and forth, minus the intermediary of glasses. It hadn’t seemed worth the time and fuss if the angel could just come back to the couch with the corkscrew and slip back against the demon’s encircling arm.</p><p>There didn’t seem to be any rush. It felt as if they’d always sat this way, though the irregular tramp of almost weightless little paws wasn’t an element either had anticipated.</p><p>“You might have said something, dear. I kept hesitating.”</p><p>“Well. Just that someone told me we <em>weren’t friends.</em> Not too long ago. Slows you up, like.”</p><p>Aziraphale winced. “You know I didn’t mean that. I – “ he broke off, because everything wanted to be said at once, but Colette parading almost across his face was a good excuse. Crowley waited for her to make up her rudimentary kitten mind where to go next before leaving a quiet kiss in her wake.</p><p>“Yeah. I know.”</p><p>Well, perhaps there were the beginnings of a rush. The kind that the proverb indicates with the oxymoron <em>make haste slowly.</em> It helped with the pacing that Torquato Tasso was solidly ensconced in Aziraphale’s lap, purring, and it seemed a shame to dislodge him. Crowley divided his attentions.</p><p>“Nige said he’d be round with a carrier on Saturday. You heal that scratch up?”</p><p>“He – mm – never noticed the miracle, I think.”</p><p>“Been a job, but I’ll miss ’em.”</p><p>“We can bring them upstairs for the night.”</p><p>“Ups…?”</p><p>Aziraphale disentangled himself for a moment and snapped. The whole array of kitten tackle – dishes, pen, box of toys – disappeared, presumably to reappear overhead.</p><p>“It’s a good deal more comfortable than the couch, dear.”</p><p>“Be kittens all over us all night, y’know.”</p><p>“I think we’ll manage.”</p><p> </p><p>*     *     *</p><p> </p><p>Aziraphale absolutely did not tear up when he put Colette in the cardboard carrier Mrs. Brigham had brought, pressing a copy of <em>Time’s Breathless Passion</em> on her as well (“I seem to have come into two copies”). The husbands from the coffee shop surprised them both with hugs – “Come round and see Tosser any time” (they’d given up explaining).</p><p>Sandy of the many piercings arrived a few hours later with a studded black leatherette harness for Octopussy. Crowley suspected a custom job.</p><p>“So. That’s all the orphans of the universe sorted,” he said, half to the angel and half to Oswald, who was perched on his bony knee. “You, me, them. Oswald here. Off to try him out on the flat, what d'ye say, Ozzer?”</p><p>“You’re leaving?”</p><p>Crowley stood, lifting the kitten to one shoulder.</p><p>“Seems like the time,” he said. “You comin’ ? “</p><p>
  
</p><p>
  <em>finis</em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yes, this is kind of a PSA -- we're right at the time of year when litters of orphan kittens start to turn up at rescues (or, sadly, in boxes and bags at random locations) and need fostering, something an unsleeping angel would be particularly well cut out for. I imagine Crowley landing on the web pages of Cats Protection UK and the American rescue powerhouse Hannah Shaw aka Kitten Lady (@kittenxlady on IG) , whose vet-tech ally and Pratchett superfan @thecatlvt (actual Discworld tattoos) works at the vet's surgery where my partner takes the furry goofs.</p><p>The Oswald Spengler business is an inside bookstore joke: <i>Decline Of The West</i> is one of those sententious theory-of-everything screeds beloved of people who want to seem more intellectual than they are (in this case, usually uptight neoconservatives), and as a consequence every used bookshop haunted by the Author in youth had several copies that they couldn't sell.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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